Willa Potter and the Prophecy of Fate
by Meowlister Memsie
Summary: Parents dead and little brother taken to some unknown location, Willa Potter thought that all was lost and she was destined for a shadowed life in Brazil. That is, until an antiterrorist group from Great Britain track her down and some crazy bat Seer makes a prophecy that forces her to spy on the Dark side. [Takes place in OoTP, not an HP twin sister story.]
1. 00

VIDA VENTURA was never one to forget. Ever. She remembered everything from vacations to petty bets to what color someone's shirt was. It came in handy, her memory, especially when it came to those milestones in life. Her first day of magical school, her graduation, her wedding.

More than anything, she remembered that October night of 1981—the night she met her daughter. No, not biologically—she had discovered her infertility many years prior. She met her daughter on the street.

Vida had turned that night over in her head so many times, she was surprised she hadn't lost it. Something about it was off, and no amount of scrutiny could pick that something out. Even fourteen years afterwards it puzzled her to no end.

Using their vacation days, she and her husband Preston had travelled across the Atlantic Ocean from Brazil to Great Britain. Her sister-in-law, she remembered, had invited them over, offering to let them stay with her in her Bristol home.

"Mummy!" Siobhan, Vida's five-year-old niece, had exclaimed after about a week in the kitchen. "Mummy, it's Halloween! Can I go trick or treating, Mummy? Mummy, please?" She was tugging at her mother's pants, wide brown eyes pleading.

Vida recalled Gisella Monroe's regretful sigh, her hand sweeping over little Siobhan's hair. "You know I can't take you this year, hon. I have to get back to work soon, and so does Daddy."

Oh, how that girl cried! Strangers knew that her favorite holiday was Halloween before they knew her name. Tears poured from her eyes, and her face had turned red. It was the most unusual sight, really—she usually was a passive person who rarely begged for anything.

Eventually, Vida had caved in. "I can take her," she offered from her seat in the dining room adjacent to the kitchen.

Gisella looked up as her daughter squealed. She pursed her lips in thought, her thumb running circles in Siobhan's hair. "I couldn't possibly bother you."

Siobhan wailed.

"It wouldn't be a bother at all," Vida said quickly. "It's the least I can do for you, what with letting me stay with you and all."

"Really?"

"Really."

And with that, her hand was soon gripping Preston's as they shadowed their niece. A small smile played on her lips as she watched her skip down the pathways to the houses, the owners doting on her little fairy costume before dropping chocolates into her pink bucket.

Despite that night's nippy weather, Vida had felt a warm knot in her stomach. Her smile had broadened each time Siobhan had returned with one of her own. Never in her twenty-nine years had she experienced such a sensation. As she grabbed the girl's hand and Preston the other, her tiny feet lifting from the pavement with a shriek of joy, Vida Ventura had never been so pleased.

As the trio walked back to the homely cottage, a gutwrenching screech had cut through the late October night.

"Wait here," Vida commanded her companions, promptly setting off down the sidewalk.

Turning a corner around a thicket, she skidded to a stop. Lengths before her was a small, quaking figure in the middle of the walkway. It was a child, she deciphered in the dark, his or her's knees to chest and whimpering.

"Are you all right?" Vida called out.

Immediately, the child's head snapped up and silenced. She still couldn't make out the details, but big doe eyes—red from crying— shone.

She reached the kid with a few long strides. Stooping down, her fingers had brushed a shoulder before the child skittered away.

Now in the way of a nearby streetlamp, Vida could see a halo of deep red hair circumscribing a freckled baby face. The girl, she realized, could not have been much younger than Siobhan.

Her heart raced at the sight of her rumpled nightdress and scratched limbs. Blood trickled from a scrap on her kneecap, which, judging by the thin streak of red on the pavement, had been the reason for her initial position.

The girl shifted her body away from her, and light casted on a stretch of crimson soaked fabric across the shoulder she had touched. Squeamish, her stomach had turned.

"Honey, are you hurt?" Tentatively, she shuffled forward. "What happened?"

She watched her for several long moments. Her heavy breaths filled the air prior to her saying, "I'm lost."

Vida took a couple more cautious steps. When the girl didn't protest, she closed the gap. "Do you know where you live?"

She lifted a finger towards the woods behind them.

Vida frowned. She was no expert, but she knew that there wasn't another town in that direction for miles.

"Are you sure?"

Her hand falling limp at her side, she shrugged.

"Where's Mummy and Daddy, honey?"

"Home." Her voice sounded like it was once soft and light as a feather. It certainly wasn't then.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Running," she replied quietly, "like Daddy sayed."

Those four words had made Vida's heart stop. Running? From what? What could be so terrible that a less than five-year-old girl had to run from home on her own?

"Honey," she said, her voice cracking, "what was Daddy doing?"

"He was on the floor."

"And Mummy?"

"On the floor too. Ha'y was crying."

Suddenly, the world began to spin, and Vida had to press her fingers to the sidewalk to balance her swaying body. The only thing she could think of was murder. Parents on the floor, daughter told to flee mere moments prior? It was the most reasonable theory.

As she focused once again, she found herself looking at the girl's shoulder. "What happened here?" she asked, bracing herself for the answer.

"I was hit."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

Vida buried her hand in her coat pocket, procuring her beloved redwood wand. To her surprise, the girl didn't seem shocked in the least. She only followed it with her eyes as the tip rested at her wound.

"Episkey." The girl hissed, and a twin pair of tears snaked down her round, red cheeks. Vida aimed at her knee. "Episkey."

Several more tears broke free, and after sheathing her wand, Vida wrapped her arms around her heartbreakingly tiny, cold frame. She made no move to free herself, only melting into the embrace with a few choked sobs.

"Shh," Vida whispered, running her fingers through the auburn locks. "Shh, don't cry. Shh..."

But the girl continued. She cried so much, Vida wondered how such a young, small girl could hold that much sadness. It made tears of her own rise into her eyes, and she clutched that girl even tighter, wishing she could absorb some of that pain.

As the sniffled quieted, Vida said, "What's your name, honey?"

"W-willa."

"Willa," she repeated, trying the name out on her tongue. "Willa, I am going to take you to the police, okay?"

And just like that, her sobs returned to their old intensity. "No!" she wailed. "No! You can't take me! Daddy's coming for me, he won't find me if I leave!"

"Yes, he will," Vida reassured. She pulled her chin from her freshly healed shoulder and looked into her hazel eyes. "The police will help you, Willa. They'll help you find Mummy and Daddy and the rest of your family."

Willa fell silent, her eyes searching hers.

All the while, Vida studied her face. What was her story? She really had no answers other than some one-liners and her own inferences.

Wordlessly, Willa pushed herself to her feet and toddled behind Vida's back, and she encircled her neck with her arms. Understanding the tacit request, Vida pulled her knees to her side and stood. Red hair fell over her shoulder as Willa rested her forehead there.

She carried her around the corner and down the street to where her husband and niece waited. At the sound of her footsteps, they turned to face her, their cheeks and noses pink with cold.

"Who's that?" Siobhan asked.

Vida waited for Willa to say something, but when she felt her even breaths against her back, she realized that the girl had fallen asleep.

"Her name is Willa," Vida replied. "Uncle Preston and I are going to help her after we bring you home, Bahnny." Her eyes skimmed the man's expression, narrowing to signal finality.

The following events still baffled Vida, even after fourteen years. When taken to the Muggle authorities, she was nowhere. She was in no system, and when asked, nobody claimed to have ever seen her. No one stepped forward when her picture was plastered in Bristol and the neighboring villages, even after two weeks. There wasn't even a report of a pair of attacked parents and a missing child.

"Where's Mummy and Daddy?" Willa inquired one day. "You sayed they would find me."

Vida remembered the heartbreak she felt and couldn't even begin to fathom what Willa was going through. She didn't even realize the full extent to which the situtation stretched.

"I don't know, honey," Vida whispered, voice faltering at the sight of brimming tears. "I don't know."

In the mere fourteen days she knew Willa, she had seen her cry eight times—too many tears, too little time. She had grown accustomed to her quaking body pressed into hers. Things were looking grim, a terrible understatement.

As Willa drowned in her sorrows, a sparkles in Vida's peripheral vision caught her attention. It was a thin gold chain that ran along the child's collarbone and into her blouse. Vida hooked her pinky around it and pulled it free, the pendant resting on Willa's chest, who looked down before lovingly dragging a fingerpad down the gold.

"It's pretty," Vida commented, and pretty it was. It wasn't exactly ornate, but the way the simple swirls danced along the oval's perimeter was a beauty in itself. "Where'd you get it?"

"Mummy," she responded. "When she was sleeping on the floor, I taked it. She'll be mad, but I like it."

The pleased smile Vida bore faded a smidge as she envisioned Willa unclasping a necklace off of a dead lady's neck. A chill shook her bones.

Willa's tiny fingers suddenly snapped the pendant in half, revealing that it was a locket. The photograph that it framed depicted a family of four: a mother, a father, a young girl, and a baby boy. It moved, the members smiling and laughing with a happiness that could be felt.

That was when Vida knew why Willa was unfazed by her wand: her family was magic folk. And Vida also knew why it seemed like Willa never existed until then: they were using the Muggle systems.

She rushed the girl to the British Ministry of Magic, giddy with the prospect of Willa being back where she belonged.

"Home," Willa had cheered. "I'm going home!"

Wrong.

She wasn't there either. No birth record, no recognition, nothing. Vida had hoped—even now—that the only reason why Willa wasn't found was because of the end of the gruelling Wizarding War. But deep in the back of her mind, she knew that wasn't true. Even after another two weeks, there was no new information. Vida had began to cry nightly, whether she could help it or not, because of Willa's plight. Every flame of hope for that poor little girl was stamped out at that point, and with her case ice cold, she had no options left.

The time had come—all too soon, in Vida's opinion—to return to Brazil and the Wizarding War refugee camp she and her husband hosted. Willa was in emotional shambles, and when Vida informed her of her impending departure, the heartbreak and devestation on her face shattered her.

"You're leaving me too?"

Those four words forever branded themselves in Vida's mind. She'd never forget them, especially them. At that moment, it had dawned on her that she was that lonely girl's rock, the only one who believed her story and never doubted it. Leaving her behind would have been like her parents all over again, gone in a finger's snap after eveything that happened.

Vida felt a hand on her shoulder, and she whirled around to see Preston.

"Preston," she croaked, "Do we have to go?"

She had never felt so childish in her thirty years of life, but at the time, she couldn't bring herself to care.

"Yes."

Sorrow choked her, and her knees went weak as Willa clutched at them, begging her not to leave her—not then, not ever.

She dropped to her knees and hugged Willa with all her might, whispering consoling words to her. She had been mentally counting to sixty. At sixty, she was to let Willa go and leave. Any later, she may never do just that.

"That's enough!" Preston barked.

Vida jumped at the shout, and she looked at him from over her shoulder. _That's enough?_ she repeated in her head. _That's enough?! I find this girl bleeding, crying, and lost in a strange town, and after four weeks of lost hope and suffering, I have to leave her here alone. YOU'RE SAYING THAT THIS IS ENOUGH?!_

Preston approached Willa, bringing a hand through her hair. "We have to take you with us."

Three days and four Portkeys later, Vida and Preston were walking alongside the road leading to the refugee camp, each holding one hand of their adoptive daughter and swinging her between them. Vida watched as her locket flew into the air with a bout of giggles, and she recalled the picture of the ecstatic family inside.

Vida Ventura remembered everything, but some things more than others. Perhaps the thing that she would never forget—not even the most minor aspect—was a vow she had scribbled on a scrap of parchment and tucked behind the locket's photo: _You were happy like this once. You will be happy like this again._


	2. 01

THE ORDER was quiet.

Sounds a bit ridiculous, doesn't it? With all the unresolved chaos taking Britain by storm, the Order was quiet. Nothing to say, and with that, nothing to do.

And to think that the children were trying to listen in.

The food that sat before them on Grimmauld Place's squashy dining table was going cold. Not that anybody realized. All that was on their agendas at the moment was what they were going to do about the torrid present. Their thoughts consumed them. The torrid past had birthed that torrid present, and if they couldn't fix it, a torrid future would be upon them.

 _Torrid future_. The thought sent chills through Molly Weasley's bones. Even the prospect was horrible. But, she realized, at the rate that meeting was going at, it seemed that it would soon be much more than a simple prospect.

At last, the unbearable silence was cut by a frustrated sigh. Sirius Black ran a hand through his hair and said, "This is burning me out."

Murmurs of agreement rippled among the members.

"Well, get used to it," Alastor Moody grunted from his seat at a corner. "We can't advance without a plan. Should've known that the second you signed up."

"If I had known that there would be this much thinking involved," Charlie Weasley said, "I definitely wouldn't have signed up."

"Me neither," his brother, Bill, said. "But we have something to fight for here."

Another wave of quiet swept across the table.

"We need help," sighed Remus Lupin. "A clue as to what to do."

"And where do you suppose we get that?" asked Moody. "Nothing like this mess has happened before."

Remus shrugged. "Dumbledore, perhaps? He seems to know a lot more than he is telling us."

"If Dumbledore knows something," Nymphadora Tonks said, "he'd tell us. Or Harry, at least."

Molly let out a breath. "Dear, I hope not. He's just a boy, he shouldn't have to be involved in this."

"But he is, hon," Arthur Weasley told her, "whether he wants to be or not. I don't like it any more than you do, but he is."

"I'm just surprised he hasn't broken yet," Tonks commented, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I'd bet my wand he's just doing this for everybody else."

Molly frowned. "That can't be! He has to want You-Know-Who gone too!"

"I never said he doesn't. But I highly doubt he would put himself through the wringer if it wasn't necessary."

"You know what he needs?" piped up the high-pitched voice of Hestia Jones. "Something to fight for, like us!"

"Harry has plenty to fight for," Sirius said.

"No, no," Hestia said. "Something even stronger than friends and the world, which he is obligated to care for."

"Like what?" Kingsley Shacklebolt inquired, sitting up a tad straighter at the head of the table.

Hestia shook her head. "Nothing more than a suggestion, Kingsley."

"But you're on to something here," he replied. "I think we can work with this. If Harry has something personal to fight for, he'll be more compelled to finish this war. He won't want to quit until You-Know-Who is dead and whoever we find is safe."

"As sentimental as that sounds," Moody snapped, "it's hollow. The kid doesn't have anyone. What are we to do, dig his parents up from their grave?"

Several people grimaced. Bill's face lit up.

"That's it!" he exclaimed. At the disgusted looks thrown his way, he hastily added, "Not digging up his mum and dad, no, of course not. But if we remind him of what You-Know-Who did to them and what he wanted to do to him, he'd be more motivated, right?"

"I have pictures," Sirius offered. "I can show them to him, make him feel connected."

Charlie snapped his fingers. "Or, even better, we can get him something they owned. Did they have any heirlooms, Sirius?"

"Not that I know of," he replied. "If they did, it's in their vault."

Arabella Figg looked up from her lap. "What about their house?" the elderly woman said. "It was preserved, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Kingsley muttered, "it was."

"Do you think we can get access to it?" Arthur asked. "You know, get a few valuables?"

"I'm not too sure," responded the contemplating leader. "But it's all we got. Let's do it."

Hoots and cheers erupted around the room.

"Alright." He pushed himself up to a stand, everyone's expectant eyes on him. "Sirius, Remus, you two know the house well enough. Think you can do it?" They nod. "Excellent. Bill, Charlie, Mad-Eye, you're all guarding.

"Any objections to the arrangements?"

Molly's jaw dropped, but she was silenced by her husband's reassuring hand on hers.

"Good. You'll leave by eight tomorrow morning via Portkey. Take any longer than an hour, and we'll be going in. Got it?" The five men nodded. "Great.

"I call this session of the assembly of the Second Order of the Phoenix adjourned."

* * *

 **Not the best quality, but I'll edit later.**


	3. 02

"ALRIGHT, KNUCKLEHEADS," Moody declared as he and his four companions spun into Godric's Hollow, "you heard Kingsley: We've one hour. That means no lollygagging, no sentimental moments, nothing. Got that?"

"Yeah," replied Sirius. "We got that the first fourteen times."

"Watch your cheek, Black," Moody snapped back.

The alleyway they had Apparated into was seemingly empty, and after peeking through the lone window in the area, the team felt content.

Simultaneously, they stepped out from behind the bookstore. They came face-to-face with a bustling town square, businesses circumscribing the pavement and a sea of residents ambling about. A great statue stood imposingly in the smack dab center, and it shone greatly in the summer sunshine.

"It's this way," Sirius muttered under his breath, heading towards a side street. He kept his head bowed as he pushed through the mass of Muggles, his comrades doing the same.

Remus Lupin looked cautiously around. They definitely appeared shady, what with their heads down and hands in their pockets. But considering he was about to revisit the site of his friends' murders, he couldn't care less.

He took a deep breath in, then out, in an attempt to settle the chaos that had overthrown all common sense in his body. He was on an Order mission, a very important one at that. He just couldn't afford to blow this because he got teary-eyed—not when there was so much at stake. Crying just wouldn't help anything or, more importantly, anyone.

"We're here."

Remus jumped at the sound of Sirius' voice. Sure enough, the five of them were congregated before an iron wrought gate that ran around the small property.

His eyes averted to the house itself. It was in complete ruin, the exterior terribly weathered and ivy creeping everywhere. It was nowhere near the lively residence it was and should have been. Instead, it was a mess.

When nobody made a move, Moody stepped forward and set his hand on the gate. A loud rumbling sounded, and he backed up as a short pillar rose from the gravel.

Remus stared. There were words, but he couldn't piece them together. He didn't have to, anyways. By the scribbles of ink on the stone surface, he knew that the pillar foretold that fateful October night.

 _Long live Harry Potter! The Boy Who Lived rules!_

 _RIP Lily and James, you two will be missed. Lily and James ;(_

Okay, all that "Harry Potter" and "Boy Who Lived" crap, he could handle. It was disgusting, yes, but he could handle it. It was the homages to James and Lily that enraged him. To them—if only he knew who they were—his two friends were mere characters in a tale, people who were easily forgotten. They were accessories to a superhero story. And they cried? They cried like they were their tears to shed? Well, they weren't. Not when those human abominations reduced the best people he ever knew to a mention and an emoticon.

Before he knew it, the pillar was sinking back into the ground, disappearing as it if were never there.

"Weasleys!" Moody barked. "You're with me, securing the grounds. Black, Lupin, search the house and bring out anything you find.

"Go!"

As the three split to cover different areas, Sirius joined Remus' side. "Are you ready for this?" he asked in a breath.

"No."

"Me neither."

Together, they approached the ghost house. Remus hadn't been anywhere near it almost two decades; the last time was when he was gathering items to put in the Potters' vault according to the wills they shouldn't have written at the ages of twenty.

He pushed open the molding front door, and he was immediately assaulted by the stench of age and neglect. He had cast some minor preservation charms years prior, but it seemed as if nothing could hinder the consumption of time.

"Do you wanna split?" he inquired Sirius.

Sirius looked at him with a quick sniffle, his back to the foyer in which James had died. "Yeah, sure."

And with that, they were off, exploring a house in which a family was torn apart.

* * *

Charlie Weasley was never one to dwell on thoughts. He simply didn't have the time or interest, and if he was honest, such an act was exhausting.

But here he was, his head tilted back as he took in the crumbling structure, a large hole blasted out at the top right corner.

So that's where it happened. That's where Lily Potter was murdered, Voldemort was supposedly defeated, and Harry Potter given a title and scar he never wanted.

Curiously, Charlie walked forward some, the waist-high grass of the backyard grazing his fingertips. The rubble had fallen just at his feet, and when he looked around, there were bald spots in the yard where pieces of it laid over the plants.

Taking a deep breath, Charlie procured his wand. He turned, and he watched as safety barriers crept up the air before sealing.

He was on a mission, not a field trip.

Despite that, his attention returned to the cottage. No doubt, somebody had cast protection charms on it. For what exactly, he didn't know, but if he had to take a guess, he'd say anti-weather. Just snow and rain and such. The place, though still in horrid shape, appeared nicer than it should have been.

His foot bumped into something. Glancing down, he spotted a pale red brick that must have been thrown from the explosion.

Charlie shrugged it off, but his heart leapt as he caught his eye on a pretty big detail.

Red, a different kind, was coating the corner.

He stooped down and gingerly picked the brick up. It was a liquid, clearly old, judging from its rust-like face. There was a lot of it too; it covered the side and bottom.

 _Oh crap,_ he thought. _Is this blood?_

But that made no sense. Lily and James were killed inside the house and by the Killing curse, which wouldn't have made them bleed. Voldemort wouldn't have bled either. And if Harry had, which he doubted, it wouldn't have been this much or be here.

Maybe it was an animal's.

Yes, an animal's. That made far more sense. But, nonetheless, it scared him.

What if it was human? What would that mean?

"Hey, what's that?" Charlie spun around and found Bill, his eyes on the brick in his hand. "Why do you have that?"

"Bill," he said, "in all honesty, what do you think is on here?"

Bill's brows furrowed as he inspected the brick. "Blood? Is that blood?"

"That's what I thought. Why do you think that is?"

He shrugged. "I dunno."

"We should probably test it."

"Calm down. Maybe it was an animal or some Death Eater that came back all those years ago."

"But if it was a Death Eater," Charlie said, "why would their blood be on a brick like this? Like they were hit by it?"

Sighing, Bill brought a hand through his red hair. "I dunno that either. Save it and test it if you want, but we need to guard."

Charlie was only half-listening. All that he cared about was figuring out why there was old blood all the way out here.

"It's probably nothing, Charlie."

"Yeah." He conjured a small canvas bag, and he dropped the brick into it. "Probably."


End file.
